


Bounty

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dubious Consent, Hand Feeding, M/M, Pretty Chains, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The South is a wilderness of warring barbarian 'kings', raiding bands, bandits and other such creatures. Like every good citizen of the Imperium, Dorian Pavus despises the very thought of the place and all those savages who inhabit it, probably all sweaty and half-naked and... sorry, lost his train of thought for a moment there.</p><p>Of course, most good citizens of the Imperium haven't just been captured by a group of said southern barbarians.</p><p>(AU in which Hawke leads a raiding band, Dorian is the prize all his men are fighting over, Varric stands to make a lot of money off the betting pool, and Trevelyan is not the Inquisitor, he's a very naughty boy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Capture

**Author's Note:**

> The most pertinent line from the original kink meme prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Dorian goes from terrified to extremely aroused by the idea that a bunch of sweaty, muscled barbarians fight for him._

Strictly speaking, Dorian shouldn't even have been travelling with one of those caravans, but with his father having cut him off from his inheritance as part of the latest round of the 'see sense, come home, get married' campaign, it had seemed like the easiest way to get back to Minrathous without dipping too far into his rapidly dwindling coinpurse.

It was slow, uncomfortable, and his travelling companions were the sort of people who thought even a minor Laetan mage (the guise under which he was travelling) counted as 'posh', but he'd been expecting that.

Southern raiding parties, not in his thoughts at all. They'd started off on the Imperial Highway, and the barbarians would never _dare_ , surely. The first clue that this stage of his adventure had gone very wrong was when he'd poked his head out of the wagon in which he was travelling to find out that they'd been diverted quite some way away from the main road for reasons that nobody would explain to him. He wasn't stupid, though. There were few possible reasons and they all pointed towards somebody wanting to avoid the Imperial army patrols which commonly swept along the highway, checking for smugglers or bandits.

That wasn't a very comforting thought. Much less comforting than that-- stopping for the evening and one of the caravan guards suddenly dropping dead, an arrow through his throat. Yells, cries, and somebody telling him, "If you can fight, mage, I suggest you ready yourself to do so!"

Dorian can fight. He has never, however, been in a battle; he has never fought like this, fire in the dark, chaos and smoke, barely able to tell friend from foe. Somebody, no more than a shape in the dark, knocks his staff from his hands with apparent ease and then hits him with a second blow that takes both breath and magic from him, knocking him to the ground.

_My staff_ , he thinks, reaching out for it. If he can just arm himself, then, surely...

He doesn't see the third blow coming.

* * *

He wakes to an all over ache, and the slow realisation of his situation. He is in some sort of tent. His hands are tied behind his back. Not rope, though. Feels like leather. There is something around his throat-- a collar, an actual _collar_ , and when he sits up he realises there is a chain attached, itself connected to a pole behind him. As if he's some sort of captive animal.

It isn't until he tries to call on his magic and nothing happens that he really starts to panic.

"Idiot mage." In the dim light he can make out an elf; armoured, fierce looking, covered in strange tattoos. He is watching Dorian struggle in his bonds dispassionately. "Anders. He's awake."

At his call, a man enters the tent from somewhere to the side. He carries a staff. A southern mage, Dorian supposes-- a hedge-mage, a half-trained pitiful creature subject to the whims and untender mercies of whichever warlord or raider controls the local area, no better than a slave. He doesn't look like the downtrodden creature of Tevinter stories, though. He _is_ wearing the ugliest feathered _thing_ that Dorian has ever seen, but perhaps that is what passes for fashion in the south.

"Calm yourself." he says to Dorian, stepping forward. In his off-hand he carries a bag stuffed with what look like standard healing materials, bottles of what are presumably potions of some sort. "The collar is like those the Qunari use. No permanent damage to your abilities. Hawke is not so careless with his captives."

A moment of relief. They have a mage, a healer. These people can probably be bargained with, southerners or not. They probably just want money. "My name is Dorian of House Pavus. I am the son of a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium." he tells the mage. "Tell your leader that my father will pay a good ransom for me." His father will also i-told-you-so Dorian about this for approximately the rest of his life, but right now that's a price Dorian is willing to pay.

The elf glares at him, a rather dark and angry look considering Dorian has just offered to give them lots of his father's money. "Ransom you? There'd be some sort of mutiny."

"I don't remember this fuss when I joined." Anders says, as if mildly annoyed.

"Nobody's dumb enough to challenge Hawke's claim." the elf responds. He gives Anders a strange look; half possessive, half annoyed, half fond. "Or mine. But one mage is plenty enough for my tastes. So now we have this fine bit of bounty and no clear claim on him."

Anders presses a potion to Dorian's lips. "Drink." he says, in that gently demanding tone that all healers use, even southerners, apparently, and the potion smells and tastes familiar enough that Dorian obeys without thinking. "I presume Hawke has a plan for settling it, then? A tourney or some such nonsense? Hitting each other with sticks and making more work for me?"

"Bare-handed." The elf grins. "Less for you to heal up, and besides, it's traditional, for _this_ sort of bounty."

Dorian finishes the potion, and glares at the two of them, talking over him as if he's not there. "Will one of you please explain to me what is going on? _Bounty_? _Tourney_? Bare-handed _what_?"

The elf snorts again, and stands up. "I'm going to go find Hawke." he says, ignoring Dorian's questions.

"I dem--" Dorian gets out, before Anders shoves another potion in his mouth so quickly he nearly chokes on it. The elf just leaves.

"Fenris is Hawke's second in command." Anders hisses at him. "Show some respect. You ought to have the sense to realise you're in no position to make demands here. You disrespect Fenris around _Hawke_ and he might be minded to just declare you common property and let the men sort the rest out among themselves."

_common property_? Dorian frowns, thinking it over. _Hawke's claim_. The way the elf - Fenris - had looked at Anders. "May I ask a question?"

"Oh, so they do teach you manners in Tevinter." Anders says, a little archly, but nods.

"What precisely is your position here? _Other_ than healer, I mean."

Anders smiles softly. "I would say I am Hawke and Fenris' lover." He pauses. "The formal term used in the South is 'consort'."

He says it so easily. Dorian frowns. "And is that _normal_?" He has heard tales of southern depravity, of course, but never knew how much was true.

"Three of us? Not so much. Hawke thrives on abnormality, though." Anders shrugs. "Like you, I was bounty. Although Hawke won me in a duel. He wanted a healer, and Meredith wouldn't let me go any other way."

There's that word again. "I am not whatever _bounty_ is. Please-- can you just speak to Hawke? I am not lying, my father will--"

"Hawke will not do deals with a Magister." Anders says, flatly. "Put that thought out of your mind. It would be best if you stopped speaking of it altogether. It is bad enough that you told Fenris." He shakes his head. " _Bounty_ means anything acquired in a raid that isn't part of the common pot. A fine weapon, a good war horse, an unusual bit of jewelry-- or a pretty mage. The warriors make claims on them, bicker and gamble and fight over them, because it's how you distinguish yourself from the next man. Hawke has the last say, of course."

"You are comparing me to a _horse_." Dorian complains, although part of his mind sticks on _pretty?_

Ander smiles. "Are you waiting for me to make a joke about 'riding' you?" His smile only widens when Dorian splutters. "If it makes you feel any better, some of Hawke's finest are among those competing for you. Now, I should get back to work. I'll send someone in to check on you and bring you something to eat in a bit."

It does _not_ make Dorian feel any better.

Or at least, it shouldn't. He shouldn't feel anything remotely like jealousy for a southern mage wearing an ugly feathered whatever-that-is who speaks of his lovers as if there is no shame at all-- if he is proud, even. He shouldn't like being referred to as _pretty_ or the implied compliment in being a prize that these southern warriors are willing to fight over, something rare and desirable. _There'd be some sort of mutiny_ Fenris had said.

He _definitely_ shouldn't be thinking about that book a friend at the circle had smuggled in, of boys laughing at the thought of half-naked southern barbarians, Dorian laughing along so that nobody would know that his reaction to pictures of shirtless, muscled warriors was any different to theirs.

But alone and chained, with nothing to think of except his fate, he can't stop himself.

* * *

For lunch, a boy brings him a bowl of what Dorian can only describe as gruel, and spoons it to him like a mother feeding a baby. It's ghastly, both the taste and the lack of dignity, but he does need to eat.

"Anders says it's good for his patients." the boy explains.

"What, because they're so desperate to eat something else that they'll get better on their own?" Dorian could see that.

"They're all talking about you, you know." the boy says, wide-eyed. "Rainier and Trevelyan nearly started fighting again at breakfast, but Blackwall made them stop before Hawke or Fenris found out. Everyone's going to be so jealous of me. Nobody's allowed in here, you see. Especially Trevelyan because he is a cheat."

The last the boy delivers in a tone sounds oddly like an echo of another man's voice, perhaps a direct quote. "It all sounds very lively." Dorian tells him. "I _do_ like to be the center of attention."

"Everyone likes watching a tourney. I have a weeks' pay on Rutherford." the boy says, offering up another spoonful of gruel. "Varric gave me good odds. Rutherford and Trevelyan are the favourites, but Marcus says he thinks it might be Blackwall. But maybe he's just saying that because he wants to be in Blackwall's section when he's old enough."

"You realise I don't know who any of these men are," Dorian tells him. "Right?"

"Oh!" The boy sets the bowl down. "Um, so Hawke is our leader, and Fenris is his second. Then below them are the commanders and their seconds, and then if you're a fighter you're assigned to one of them. Rutherford, Trevelyan and Blackwall are all commanders. Rainier is Blackwall's second."

Dorian lays it all out in his head-- if nothing else, it's good to know a little more about what he's up against. For the purposes of _escape_ , of course. It's not at all flattering that it's some of the most highly-ranked warriors who are vying for his favour ('vying for his favour'? He's starting to sound like one of those novels his mother hides away in her rooms at the summerhouse.)

Anders comes back a couple of times to check on him, particularly the bump on his head. Nothing serious, apparently. He chats, and Dorian finds himself explaining a little bit about his situation-- well, it's not like he can make things worse by explaining to Anders why he accidentally ended up on a smuggler's caravan on the south border, and he feels the need to defend himself over the matter.

Maybe it's the healer thing, but the southern mage manages to make him feel like a small, silly boy. Granted, it might not have been Dorian's best plan ever, and it did end up with him kidnapped, but does Anders have to dwell on the subject?

Worse than that is Anders' gentle questioning about Dorian's experience with men. "The claim might be challenged if it isn't consummated, so even if the winner of the tourney was inclined to be patient, he--"

"We are _not_ talking about this because it is _not_ happening." Dorian says, screwing his eyes closed and wishing he had his hands free to stick over his ears.

Anders pauses. "All I am saying is, do you need an explanation of the mechanics?"

Dorian shakes his head furiously-- no, no, no, both because it is not happening and because yes, he is no virgin, and because it is not happening and because even if it is he is not talking about it with Anders. Thankfully, Anders just sighs, mutters something about having a talk with whoever wins under his breath which Dorian is going to ignore, and leaves the subject well alone after that.

Then the boy again, to help with-- well, certain natural bodily functions which are made unnecessarily complicated by the fact that he's still got his hands tied behind his back. It is possible Dorian doesn't have to worry about the damn tourney because he will die of embarrassment before they ever get to deciding a winner.


	2. Dinner

Finally, Anders comes back again, this time accompanied by someone tall, dark, and-- _oh my_. "I'm Hawke." he says, and then moves with swift, decisive movements-- removing the chain, then releasing whatever it is that holds Dorian's wrists together. It is leather, he sees, when he moves his arms-- also, _ow_ , it's like the ache's worse now he can actually move them again. Leather cuffs across his wrists, which he could almost pass off as decorative if it wasn't so obvious they were made to be tied to something. "Don't run. Trevelyan's been trying my patience and I'm really not in the mood to have to beat sense into anyone else today."

Anders grins at this. "Aww, you like him, really. You get this look like you're dealing with a rowdy Mabari pup."

"He chews on my boots and he's out, and this time I mean it." Hawke unceremoniously hauls Dorian to his feet without asking if he can stand on his own. "Half hope he wins this one. He'll be unbearable for days, but it might settle him down. Less flirting with everything that will hold still long enough."

Dorian has to almost literally bite his tongue, because this man apparently holds his entire future in his hands, and they're quite big hands, and he gets the feeling that he probably shouldn't piss Hawke off, but _really_. He's not a toy to be handed to some unruly child to keep them quiet.

"Hawke thought you might like to eat dinner with us." Anders says, answering at least one of Dorian's questions. "Because he is wicked and likes to stir up trouble."

"It'll be inspirational ahead of the tourney." Hawke replies, but smirks at Dorian in a way that makes him think Anders probably has the right of it. "Isabela donated these to the cause." He pushes a bundle of cloth into Dorian's hands. "Get changed."

Well, clean clothes would help his mood. A bath would be better, although that is likely pushing it. "Thank you." he says, shaking them out-- some sort of trousers, and a tunic, soft and a little flimsy. They're at the tail end of summer, and Dorian, used to Qunaris heat, prefers something a little thicker when he's in south Tevinter, or whatever bit of the south over the border they're in now, but it's something. After a moment, when Hawke doesn't turn away or at least avert his gaze politely as Anders is doing, he finds himself squawking "Are you going to _watch_?"

"I'm not going to give you the opportunity to try and run or get out of that collar." Hawke says. " _Get. Changed._ "

Dorian does so quickly, first swapping the old trousers for new in a way that hopefully minimizes what Hawke sees, and only then taking off and replacing the top half. The clothes fit suspiciously well-- he wonders when 'Isabela' got the time to work out what his size was, or if it was a lucky guess. They are quite good quality, as well; the trousers are soft, the fabric of the top half clings sweetly and the hem is embroidered with unfamiliar patterns.

It's also, when he gets it on, not actually a tunic. More like a sort of coat, only without fasteners in the middle, and no matter how he adjusts it seems determined to not cover him fully. The collar is high and the sleeves are long, which somehow makes it worse that there's this bare strip down his front. Even worse, as he discovers when he shifts, the trousers are a little loose and seem determined to sit precariously low on his hips. Dorian bites his lip, wondering if complaining would actually get him anywhere.

"It's supposed to be like that." Anders says, stepping forward to still Dorian's fidgeting hands. "Riviani fashion. The trousers feel like they're going to fall but they won't, as long as nobody yanks on them."

Hawke chuckles, as Anders delivers the last line with a sideways glare. "I couldn't resist. You looked _so_ adorable. Right, let's go. I'm hungry."

He's not to have shoes, either, it seems. Luckily it is not far-- out of the tent into the late evening air, across the encampment to another, larger tent. What little he glimpses of the camp looks quite well organised, actually. Escape would rely upon getting this collar off, or a horse, preferably both.

Also, not getting caught by the _giant Qunari_ standing by the entrance to the tent. She straightens when they arrive. "Hey boss. Anders. Everyone is seated." Her gaze slides across to where Dorian is standing (well, being herded by Hawke, mostly, who hovers nearby like he's going to grab Dorian by the collar if he tries anything). "And Bella's intermittent giggling for the past hour has an explanation, I see."

"Thought it might liven the evening up." Hawke says.

"You mean, you and Isabela thought it would be amusing to tease the boys?" the Qunari asks.

"It appears so." Anders says, with a rather put-upon sigh. Hawke just nudges Dorian forward as the Qunari steps aside.

Inside the tent is one large low table, with a number of men and a couple of women seated around it. There are three empty seats near to Fenris, and another on the far side which the Qunari, following in, takes next to a woman who immediately snuggles into her side, but only after being rebuffed in an attempt to climb into her lap.

He may or may not be focusing on that bizarre scene so as to not think about the way there are several men eyeing him in a way that can only be described as _hungry_. His seat is between Hawke and Anders, with Fenris on the other side of Anders. Hawke doesn't bother to introduce him, just nods at the man next to him who leans over to pour Hawke a cup of something or other. Fenris pours for Anders and vice versa. Directly across from Dorian, one of the men grins at him and pours a cup, pushing it towards him. "Hello, pretty. I'm Max, and I'll be winning you tomorrow. What's your name?"

"Dorian." he replies, shortly, because Anders' response makes him shy of giving anything more, and because the man is not unattractive but the way he looks at Dorian is a very unsubtle and slightly unsettling thing. 

"Pup's pretty confident, it seems." a dwarf further down the table comments. There's a few laughs, although Max appeasr to be attracting a couple of angry looks. "He's spent some time arguing with me about my odds."

"You have me even-keeled with _Rutherford_." 'Max' says, indicating down the table past the dwarf to a blond man who doesn't look inclined to answer back, just stares back down the table in a way that says he's not very impressed. "I am offended."

Dorian might be doing a little staring of his own, mostly at the blond. Maker, it's like he's walked straight out of one of Dorian's books on the south, perhaps that one he used to hide under his mattress when he was a teenager and didn't have access to actual pornography. Rutherford looks back at him and Dorian hastily averts his eyes back down to the table.

" _Attempt_ to behave, Trevelyan." Hawke says to the man across the table.

"I'm behaving!" Max-- Trevelyan grins widely. "Point of order-- is it fair that both Blackwall and Rainier get to compete? You know if either of them win they'll just share."

Next to Isabela and Adaar, his gesture goes this time. One older man with an impressive beard, the other younger, clean-shaven and eyeing Trevelyan like he's thinking of getting up and starting the fight right now. "Thought you were convinced you'd have an easy win." the younger man says.

"I'm worried about you, Rainier darling." Trevelyan bats his eyelashes. "The more competitors, the greater the chance somebody will rub your face into the dirt before I get my chance to do it."

Whatever Rainier is about to say to that is stopped by Hawke's fist coming down on the table with a bang that makes Dorian nearly jump out of his skin. "Enough. Save it for tomorrow."

_Tomorrow_. When these men-- and apparently a few more-- will be fighting for the right to claim him. Make him their consort. Anders had tried to couch it in more delicate terms, but what it boils down to is that unless a miracle occurs, tomorrow, whichever of these sweaty southern barbarians turns out to be strongest is going to pin Dorian down and--

_Maker_. His gaze slides back down to Rutherford's end of the table and he squirms in his seat. _What are you thinking about, Pavus? What is wrong with you?_

"Hey, pretty." the woman next to Adaar calls, breaking Dorian out of his thoughts. "Aren't you going to try the ale?" When he looks up at her she grins broadly. "Lot of boys here just dying to see you _swallow_."

Hawke chuckles under his breath. Anders groans. " _Really_ , Isabela?"

Dorian spends the rest of dinner ignoring Trevelyan's increasingly lewd compliments, Isabela's equally lewd jokes at his expense, the fact that Hawke keeps reaching around behind him in order to grope Anders, and most definitely the way Rutherford is watching him from the end of the table.

Not that he's noticing.

Or looking back.

_Finally_ , after what seems like hours, Hawke stands and guides Dorian firmly out the door, Fenris and Anders following at a leisurely pace behind. They go to a new tent, this one large, better equipped with furniture than the place in which Dorian woke up. There's some chests, a large table and chairs, a ridiculous number of furs, and a sort of folding screen at the back which acts as divider to separate off what he supposes is probably the sleeping area.

Also the largest dog Dorian has ever seen. More like a sort of dog-shaped pony, to be honest. "Take that off." Hawke says, and then, after a moment in which Dorian nearly has a heart attack, "Anders will have something you can sleep in."

Anders chooses that moment to stumble through the door, arm in arm with Fenris, laughing about something or other, and then finds Dorian some (ugly but at least not covered in feathers) nightclothes. It's all very hospitable, except for Fenris watching him like he's just hoping Dorian does something that counts as an excuse for violence and the fact that as soon as he's changed Hawke grabs him and chains his wrists back together.

At least, he supposes, as Hawke indicates a pile of blankets and furs which is apparently what he's getting for a bed tonight, it's inside, and warm. Anders practically tucks him in once he finds a position which isn't entirely uncomfortable. "Try to get some rest." he says.

"Dog." Hawke says. " _Guard_." The dog-shaped pony flops on the floor near Dorian's 'bed' at the word. "And you, don't do anything stupid."

_I will do my best_ , he doesn't say, because the dog is staring at him with a look nearly as judgmental as that of it's owner.

Then all _three_ of them disappear behind the divider. Well, he had got the impression that was the situation, yes. 

Then the noises start. Low voices, first; Anders saying _he's right there!_ and Hawke chuckling, something he can't make out, and then from Fenris something along the lines of _glad he'll be someone else's problem tomorrow_. And then another noise, a sort of breathy sound which is not quite a moan but not actually words, either, and oh--

Oh.

Dorian is not some blushing virgin, but he is definitely blushing right now. Glad nobody can see him (other than the damn dog), he tries to wriggle deeper under the blankets, in case that helps.

It does not help. The noises are _obscene_ , and loud enough that he can just about guess what's happening. Or to put it another way, loud enough that he can't stop himself visualizing it. Anders, despite his initial protestations, is easily the loudest of the three, but at times Hawke's voice carries so well Dorian wonders if the man is doing it on purpose.

"If you're so worried about noise," he says, "Perhaps Fenris should give you something to keep your mouth occupied."

"I suppose I could be convinced to offer the mage my assistance."

Dorian buries his face in the furs and whimpers. They go at it for what seems like _hours_. He's almost glad his hands are tied as it removes any temptation to actually touch himself, but not _that_ glad because this must be some new form of torture, surely. At least he only has to deal with this for one night.

Because tomorrow--

No, that thought is not helping _at all_.


	3. Tourney

In the morning, Hawke unlocks his wrists for him to have breakfast with Anders, then has him change back into the ridiculous outfit from the night before. Anders even offers him a comb and a mirror, so he can at least try to fix his hair.

Then Isabela turns up, hurling herself into the tent with a grin. "Good _morning_." she coos. "I brought makeup, in case you wanted some. It is your wedding day, after all. Do you have a favourite? Is it Cullen? Did I say thank you yet for providing an excuse to watch handsome boys grappling with each other, all sweaty-like?"

Dorian blinks, attempting to process all of this. "I-- maybe a little kohl." Not because he wants to look _pretty_ for anybody, but he always does feel more confident when he's done himself up. Then the next part of her words work their way into his brain. "Sorry-- _wedding_?"

Isabela and Anders exchange a look. "Dorian," Anders says, gently. "You do understand what a consort is, right?"

"I do _not_ need the sex talk." Dorian snaps at him. "Especially after--" then he thinks better of it.

Anders blushes. Isabela cackles. "Oh yeah, he's loud, this one."

"At any rate," Anders says, bravely ploughing on, "that wasn't what I meant. For a raider to take a consort-- male or female-- is an act of commitment, generally for life unless a counter-claim is made. A warrior who did not provide for his consort, or mistreated them, or allowed them to be claimed by another, would be looked down on. It would be ruinous for anyone hoping to some day lead a raiding band of their own."

"On the other hand," Isabela adds. "A consort as pretty and rare as _you_ would be a wonderful status symbol. He'll be expected to shower you in gifts, dress you in fine furs, all of that. Don't be misled - Anders _wants_ to dress like this." She sighs. "All the pretty things. Almost makes me want to let my boo tie me down. Metaphorically, that is. Commitment-like. In the literal sense-- been there, done that, she is _really_ good with knots. Incidentally, you didn't answer my question."

"Which one?" Dorian asks, still a bit stuck on the visual of Isabella, the Qunari, and _knots_ , but mostly on _commitment_.

"About if you have a favourite. Cullen, for example. Blond, manly jawline, you kept staring at him all last night?"

"I did _not_."

Anders pets his head like he's a child. "Was that you being subtle, then?"

Dorian glares at the two of them. "I-- just let me do my face, would you?"

It gives him an excuse to stare into the mirror and try to get his emotions back under control. He doesn't know why this should be the thing that tears at him, when he's half-accepted the sex part, making excuses in his head about how he has to play along so they'll give him a chance to escape. _An act of commitment_. He's not supposed to want the sex, but even in Tevinter there's an understanding that if you're subtle about it, if you play your part...

An actual relationship is nothing he's ever allowed himself to hope for, and now this-- it's rather like the situation with his father, if his father was a short-tempered southern warrior and instead of the daughters of Magisters his father incessantly parades in front of him, Hawke's lined up a bunch of handsome men.

The part where he doesn't get a choice is the same. The part where he's almost going along with it-- has he even made a serious attempt to escape? Perhaps if he'd been keeping a eye out for chances instead of making eyes at Rutherford-- _Cullen_ , that's his given name, it suits him-- _ugh_ , there is definitely something wrong with him.

His eyes flick to the collar he's still wearing, in the mirror. Maybe that's it. It can't be natural to have your magic walled away like this. It's _doing_ something to him. He finishes his eyes, watching Anders and Isabela chatting behind him in the mirror, then angles it as if he's checking his hair, letting his fingers slide down the nape of his neck to try and figure out how the thing is held on. There's a clasp, but it feels bulky, heavy, locked perhaps. If he got hold of a weapon, could he cut through the leather parts? Is it enchanted against that? He needs to at least try. He'll get free, and escape, and all of these inappropriate thoughts about southern warriors will stop once he's safely back in Tevinter, he's sure.

He honestly doesn't realise Fenris has come back in until his arm is wrenched behind his back-- then both arms, and when Fenris shoves him away his hands are locked again, and he stumbles. "Fenris!" Anders says, stepping forward to help Dorian. "Was that necessary?"

"He was _trying_ to get the collar off." Fenris says, with a glare. "Knew he was only playing tame."

"He's hardly going to get anywhere with only his bare hands." Anders replies.

"And if he had? If he had attacked you?" Fenris counters. "Whoever gets him better keep him on a short leash. Another man's consort or not-- I _will_ tear your heart out if I need to." The last he directs straight at Dorian. "I will stay and keep an eye on him until Hawke calls for us, seeing as _somebody_ is too kind-hearted and _somebody else_ too easily distracted."

"Grumpy." Isabela says. "I wanted to go find out how the betting pool's doing anyway, though. Ta, boys!"

After she swans out, Anders looks over at Fenris. "Fenris, will you let me talk to him alone for a moment?" At the elf's dark look he adds, "For heavens' sake, I _am_ able to defend myself, especially against a chained and collared Tevinter _boy_."

Dorian bites back his response to _boy_ , because Fenris still looks mildly murderous. "Do _not_ unlock his hands." Fenris says, after a moment. "I will be right outside."

Anders sighs, guiding Dorian to the table. "Well-- that was stupid of you. It would be rather hypocritical of me to scold you for escape attempts, all things considered, but may I ask what brought it on?"

Dorian bites his lip. "The collar."

"It's hurting?" Anders looks mildly concerned. "Don't try _it was itching and I was just scratching it_ , that one never works."

He shakes his head. "It doesn't hurt. But what does it do, really?"

"I told you." Anders says. "It blocks magic."

"Nothing else?"

Anders shakes his head. "Nothing else. I've had one on before, sometimes for months at a time, and never noticed any side effects. I used to escape rather a _lot_ , you see."

He smiles, like it's a fond memory. "From Hawke?" Dorian cannot imagine it - Anders is so, well, relaxed around Hawke. Fenris, too, like he's a prickly cat rather than a homicidal elven warrior who wants to rip Dorian's heart from his chest.

Anders laughs. "Oh, no. No, never from Hawke. But before that, I mean. I was never officially a consort, and without that protection-- well, suffice it to say I had plenty of reason to escape. Multiple times, in fact, which was where the collar came in. Believe me, it does a thorough job of blocking magic, but nothing else." He gives Dorian a sly look. "It doesn't, for example, make you fancy Cullen Rutherford."

"I do not--"

"Also, if you actually want escape, you'll need to get better at lying." Anders says, over the top of his admittedly weak protest. "Put some thought into it, work on a plan. Don't do it on the spur of the moment. I'm starting to like you, and I don't want to see Fenris drag your insides into the outside. Although really-- you could do worse. Much worse." He smooths the fabric over Dorian's shoulders where Fenris' handling has rumpled it. With his hands tied behind his back it sits more open, and Anders' 'fixing' only makes matters worse. "If you did want to name a favourite, some of the competitors will back off. Blackwall probably would step out, out of courtesy."

"I don't want. I don't want any of this."

Anders sighs. "Like I said. _Better at lying_. As you will, though."

Hawke comes back at that moment, giving Dorian a sharp look which suggests he's already had an earful from Fenris. "You look like a dowager fussing over her daughter. If I get you more kittens, will it stop you trying to adopt Tevinters?"

Anders makes a rude gesture in Hawke's general direction. "I take it we are prepared?"

"The spectators have started in on the ale, so I think we should probably get things underway before any unscheduled fights break out." Hawke grins. "Varric helped me rig things to make sure Trevelyan and Rainier will get a match up. Let them get it out of their system."

"And Cullen?" Anders asks. Dorian tries not to show any response. "Before you ask-- he doesn't want to name a favourite."

"Nearly as stroppy as somebody else I know." Hawke says, with a grin. "Is it a mage thing? Unless there's an upset, I'm expecting to see Cullen against Blackwall. If he wins that, he'll go up against which ever one of the pups comes out on top. Enough talk-- I want to see some fighting at some point today."

Anders guides Dorian while Hawke strides ahead; and Fenris, who was waiting outside, follows closely behind, as if he's expecting Dorian to try to make a break for it. The 'tourney field' is literally just a field, around the perimeter of which are gathered a large number of raiders and an equally large number of casks of ale. At the far end, there's a sort of makeshift dais with two seats on it. "I will be adjudicating the matches." Fenris says, in response to an inquisitive look from Anders. "Those are for Hawke and you. Try to look decorative."

And that leaves Dorian where, exactly? Too late, Dorian sees the post somebody has put into the ground, next to one of the seats-- by the time he's realised that Hawke has already grabbed him from Anders, and is forcibly marching him to the middle of the field. "These are the rules of the tourney: bare hands, don't leave the field of battle, don't let your knee touch the ground. You don't have to draw blood-- unless you really want to." Cheers and laughter. "Fenris' judgment is final. When a halt is called, you stop fighting-- this means you, Trevelyan. And _this_." here he indicates Dorian. "Is the prize. You know, if I'd known they grew them like this in Tevinter I'd have started raiding over the border sooner." There are various yells of agreement, some of them mildly obscene.

Hawke drags him to the dais, Anders settling into the far seat with a look at Dorian that probably means _don't be stupid_. All the same, he can't help but struggle a little, not that it helps, when he realises Hawke wants him on his knees. By the time Hawke is done, his bound hands are connected to an iron ring at the base of the pole and the collar attached as well, on a short chain, so that he can barely move. To add insult to injury, Hawke then 'rearranges' his outfit to leave most of his chest bare, the trousers tugged obscenely low. "Must you."

"Maybe you should have been better behaved." Hawke says. "Although I probably would have anyway. It wouldn't be a proper tourney without the prize all out on display. Ask Anders about the duel I won him in, sometime. Naked with pretty chains-- I think Meredith was trying to distract me."

Anders sighs. "Must you?"

"I still have the pretty chains. Came as part of the deal." Hawke grins. "Varric! If you would like to stop taking last minute bets and call forward the first competitors?"

The dwarf steps forward, and calls two names; neither of them men Dorian recognises. They come in front of the dais, and give their respects to Hawke-- as well as looking Dorian over with that same lingering, open hunger. They are barefoot, wearing only thin trousers-- is that an official part of things, too? Are they _all_ going to fight half-naked?

Fenris calls the start, and they practically hurl themselves at each other, a chaotic mix of punches and grappling and kicks and attempts to knock the other man off their feet. The rest cheer-- Hawke yelling various forms of _put some gut into it!_ \-- until finally one man stumbles and the other takes advantage to knock his legs out from under him.

"Halt!" Fenris calls, and indicates the winner, although it's already obvious.

Rainier is one of the next competitors-- and yes, the shirtless bit does appear to be a thing. He wins quickly, less chaotic in tactics, more a sort of targeted assault on his opponent, unrelenting until the man simply falls to the ground. Trevelyan is in the fourth match-- he looks straight at Dorian and blows a kiss, followed by a sort of obscene wiggle with his tongue, and then wins in the fastest time yet, a sort of blur of dodge-duck-weave which leaves the other man on his knees as if he's not sure how he got there.

Blackwall is in the sixth match-up. Dorian almost feels sorry for his opponent - it's like being up against a bear. A giant, hairy bear. Maker, he's never seen a man like that, it's sort of fascinating. And the _muscles_.

He is altogether unprepared for the dwarf to call "...and Cullen Rutherford."

Cullen is not as _furry_ as Blackwall, but there is hair there, yes, and a lot of well-defined muscles, the sort which you presumably get from hitting things with heavy chunks of metal all the time. Or from wrestling with other southern barbarians, as Cullen puts on an excellent display of his technique in this matter, muscles flexing as he twists the other man's arm behind his back, physically forcing him to the ground and pinning him there.

Not that Dorian is appreciating it as anything other than a display of technique, of course. If he's feeling a little heated, it's probably because he's out here in the sun. It definitely can't be anything else, if not least because these trousers are very thin and Hawke keeps giving him amused side glances and he would _see_.

Not that there is anything to see. He's not connecting the way Cullen had looked at him, chained here _on display_ , with the ease with which he'd pinned the other man down, with the fact that if he'd done that to another barbarian, that if it were Dorian he'd--

He's _not_ thinking about it.

Once the field has been reduced to eight men, there's a brief break, in which everyone drinks more and watches as Anders gives Dorian a little water. He catches snippets of vulgar discussions about what various people would do him given the chance, sort-of compliments couched in the filthiest language he's ever heard. Speculation about how much experience he has, whether he'll need to be _trained_. He sees Cullen standing nearby, not particpating in the conversation, just watching him, and he suddenly gets a vivid mental image of being on his knees in front of the man, being _trained_ like some bed-slave, and it's shocking how much the idea appeals.

He has to stop thinking like this. It's not some dirty fantasy, this is for real. It's actually happening. He is chained here as a _prize_ for some filthy barbarian to win and--

He really has to stop thinking like this.

Either not noticing or ignoring Dorian's internal struggle, Hawke calls for the next round to begin. Rainier, Blackwall, Cullen and Trevelyan are all in seperate matches, and all win. It's just as Hawke was saying earlier; when the next matchup is announced as Rainier against Trevelyan, it's not surprising.

There is a certain amount of tension in the air; clearly this is a long-awaited matchup. They're both quick, aggressive fighters, but for a long time neither has the upper hand. Then, suddenly, Rainier slips-- it's hard to see what happened, if it's something Trevelyan does or just plain bad luck. What is clear is the fact that the very second there's an opening, Trevelyan takes advantage of it.

"Halt!" Fenris calls, and Trevelyan raises his head, panting, grinning, while Rainier stomps off to one side, clearly upset.

That means that next it's Cullen and Blackwall. This one's a battle of strength and stamina; again, they seem evenly matched. It goes on for even longer than the previous match; Dorian realises he's straining forward in his chains, wincing each time Blackwall lands a hit. Eventually, however, Cullen wins out. Blackwall is a much more gracious loser-- and Cullen a more gracious winner, to be fair-- and in the break that follows he jokes about 'young bucks' with Hawke while Cullen just _watches_ Dorian again.

"I'm going to enjoy having that pretty mouth around my cock even _more_ knowing that you're all alone and sad, Rutherford." Trevelyan says, obnoxiously confident despite the fact that Rainier left him with a bloodied lip. Cullen doesn't respond. "What, nothing to say?"

Hawke chuckles. "What a pity for the pup the rule isn't to talk your opponent to death."

Anders just sighs. "At least there's only one match to go. I'm not sure I can take much more of this posturing."

Dorian doesn't want to think about _one match to go_ , but as the dwarf is now riling up the spectators, talking up _the final match_ and _who will claim the prize_ , and taking a number of additional bets, he can hardly avoid thinking about it.

"Right!" Hawke says-- Dorian has no idea of how he decides when to intervene, but everyone falls silent when he does. "Rutherford. Trevelyan. Front and centre. Show me what you've got."

Trevelyan is practically vibrating on the spot, and when Fenris calls "Start!" he moves so quickly that Dorian hardly sees the first attack, but Cullen blocks it with apparent ease, and Trevelyan dances back out of the reach of his counterswing, then darts back in for a second attack. Again and again, quick and vicious, but each attack breaks against the apparently implacable wall of Cullen's defence.

It's getting warm under the sun, and the two of them are glistening with sweat. They're every bit the stereotype - sweaty, filthy barbarians, locked in battle like mindless beasts. Will the winner at least bathe before he stakes his claim? Dorian's not sure he'd put it past these savages to simply pin him down in the mud and take him right here, with everyone _watching_.

He can't deny it any longer; he's half-hard and squirming in his chains, as if he's eager for it. It's shameful - and the shame only winds him tighter, scenarios flitting through his mind-- hands in his hair, guiding, controlling him, making him beg for his own ruination.

Caught up in his own breathless shame, he doesn't realise what has happened until a roar from the spectators goes up, and he hears "Halt!" and opens his eyes (when had he closed them?), startled, fearful, hopeful--

Trevelyan is on one knee, fist clenched around a handful of dirt. Cullen is standing.

Oh.


	4. Claiming

Hawke stands. "Cullen Rutherford, I recognise you as winner of this Tourney. Come forward." As Cullen does, Hawke unlocks Dorian from the pole-- although he doesn't undo his wrists. "Rutherford, will you accept this bounty as your prize?"

Cullen bows his head. "I accept him and name him Consort."

"Is it witnessed?" Hawke yells out to the crowd, to a resounding cheer. "Then claim your prize."

He shoves Dorian forward, so that Cullen has to catch him-- one arm around him, forcing him to press up against Cullen's chest. Dear Maker, he _stinks_ of sweat, that shouldn't be at all attractive. In the next moment, Dorian finds himself being very thoroughly kissed.

The hand that's not holding him close presses against his cock through the thin fabric of the trousers, making him gasp, mind flashing back to the thought of how public this 'claiming' might be, but in the next moment, Cullen pulls away. "Do we _have_ to attend the feast, Hawke?"

"You're the guests of honor, so yes." Hawke says. "I am sure Isabela can be bribed to create a distraction so you can sneak away."

" _Tradition_." Cullen sighs, and strokes Dorian's cheek. "I'm sorry, my love. You'll have to wait a little."

Flushed, panting, and surrounded by people giving them knowing looks, Dorian doesn't really feel up to answering that one.

Which doesn't stop him swearing when Cullen picks him up and tosses him over his shoulder as a way of carrying him to this supposed 'feast'. Or when it turns out his 'seat' at the table is apparently in Cullen's lap, and he's not getting his wrists loose. "Vishante kaffas! How do you expect me to eat?"

"I'll feed you." Cullen replies, immediately. "It's my duty, after all. You're my consort, Dorian; it's my job to keep you well cared for, well fed, and well _pleasured_."

The query about how Cullen even knows his name dissolves on his tongue at that last word, whispered into his ear from behind.

That doesn't stop him from biting, the first time Cullen does pick some some tidbit of roasted meat as if he expects Dorian to really, literally, eat out of his hand. Dorian bites him, but Cullen just smiles and kisses the back of his neck. "Not to your liking? Would you prefer something to drink first?"

"Not if it's that _ale_ , and I don't suppose you have access to a reasonable bottle of red." He can at least play the game, not make things easy for the man. Get himself back under control. Ignore the hand that gently holds him against Cullen, wrapped around his waist, and how much he'd like it to slip a little lower.

"Varric?" Cullen says. "How much is that going to cost me?"

The dwarf grins. "Consider it a wedding present. You just made me plenty-- there was a last minute rush on Trevelyan, something about the way he's a flashy git, probably." He raises a hand, and one of the squires dashes over, nods, and then dashes out of the tent, returning minutes later with a rather anonymous looking bottle.

Cullen pours him a _very_ small cup of it, and raises it to Dorian's lips. He nearly refuses, although it smells-- not bad at all. It is not the finest vintage to ever cross his lips, but the taste is a comfort. It makes him think of drinking with friends in bars down by the port in Qunaris, back when 'slumming it' was cheap wine and a couple of drunk sailors at the next table and the knowledge that nobody would _dare_ lay a hand on a group of Altus boys, no matter what they did. "Passable."

"You hesitated a moment there," Cullen says teasingly. "Were you hoping I would feed it to you mouth-to-mouth?"

Was he hoping-- "That is not a _thing_."

In response, Cullen turns Dorian a little towards him, takes a sip from the same cup, and kisses him. He's not expecting the mouthful of wine, the spark of taste across his tongue _or_ the way Cullen pulls him close such that as he squirms he feels-- well, rather a _large_ piece of evidence that Cullen does indeed desire him. "Do they not drink wine like that in Tevinter?"

Oh, where to begin. "No. We drink from a glass, like civilised people. And the glass is usually much fuller." He gives a small glare at the cup, a rough-hewn goblet of sorts which contains no more than a few mouthfuls of wine.

"Don't want you to get drunk." Cullen says. There's a cheer, and most of the attention of those around them seems to be diverted to the other side of the tent. Cullen uses the distraction to slip that hand of his lower, just _resting_ against Dorian through a thin layer of cloth, the touch barely even there.

"If I had my hands free..." Dorian mutters, although he's not sure exactly what he would do, so he leaves the threat unfinished. If he's being honest to himself-- and he supposes he should be, now he's at the point of practically grinding his ass against the man-- there's some sort of contradictory freedom in his bondage. It's not Dorian's doing, if this filthy, sweaty, well-muscled, handsome barbarian does terrible, wonderful things to his body. He's all tied up and helpless, you see. Can't do a thing about it. Southerners. Awful savages. Etcetera.

" _Well_ ," Anders says, and Dorian looks over guiltily because he forgot the part where he's wriggling on Cullen's lap in _public_ for a moment, but Anders' attention is not on him. "That rebound didn't take long."

Finally he notices what has everyone's attention, which is Trevelyan and Isabela kissing like it's a new sort of competition they've invented. Adaar apparently doesn't mind, because they're doing it across her lap and she has one hand tangled in Isabela's hair and the other is stroking the back of Trevelyan's neck.

"Pup might finally get the spanking he deserves." Hawke says. "I don't know whether to admire Adaar's ability to wrangle trouble or fear her ability to attract it."

" _Her_ ability to attract trouble?" Fenris mutters, and helps himself to a glass of _Dorian's_ wine without even asking.

Distracted by all the goings-on, he forgets to bite the next time Cullen holds a morsel of something to his mouth. It's good, actually, rich and moist-- venison? Of course, once he's let Cullen get away with it once, the man takes further liberties. Dorian does need to eat, of course, also he probably doesn't _need_ to curl his tongue around the tips of Cullen's fingers every time, but he does it anyway.

He doesn't get any more wine. Stolen kisses, light touches, and the luxury of indulging in it all in public, with eyes on him that are filled with envy, not scorn (and occasional bouts of cheering on the kisses)-- he doesn't _need_ wine. By the time he and Cullen sneak out, in the wake of a distraction that Isabela and Trevelyan apparently didn't need to be bribed to create, he is pleasure-drunk, which as it turns out is much sweeter than the regular sort.

The glare of the light outside the tent is startling; oh, but of course, it can't be that late. Cullen unties his wrists there and then, and while Dorian is still confused about what precisely he ought to do with this new-found freedom, tilts his head up and kisses him, soft and deep, in the late-afternoon sun.

His hands find their way to Cullen of their own accord. Ah-- that's what he ought to do. He ought to _touch_. "I think we should go somewhere a little more private." Cullen murmurs.

Cullen has his own tent, rather basic-- tidy, certainly, but plain. The only thing that isn't bleakly functional is a chess board, set up ready for a game. "Chess." Dorian says, disbelievingly. "You are a handsome barbarian who _plays chess_."

Cullen smiles. "Handsome?"

Dorian kisses him then, just to stop him looking so _pleased_ with himself. During the kiss, Cullen manages to strip him of his outfit (the ridiculous trousers do fall off with one good tug, it seems), lose his own trousers, and guide Dorian backwards to a bed of furs that is surprisingly soft.

He's laid out on his back, pinned by as much as Cullen's gaze as by anything else. The way Cullen just looks at him. "You're so beautiful. I would have fought a thousand men to the death to claim you."

The first line, he has heard before. The second line, not so much. Dorian's torn between _that's barbaric_ , and _oddly the most romantic thing that's ever been said to me_. He takes a slow, preparatory breath. "Less _talking_ , more _claiming_ , Cullen."

Even though he's managed to say it, he can't help a little anxiety, as Cullen retrieves a jar of some sort of grease-- he's not even going to _speculate_ what sort, as long as it's slick enough. Better to concentrate on the feeling of Cullen's hands on his thighs, slow breaths to calm himself. Bravado and dirty fantasies aside, this is the one part where not all men are as gentle as they could be.

Cullen presses a slick finger against him, light and teasing, and pauses. "You're tense. Would you rather switch? I can be flexible."

Dorian blinks in confusion. "You-- what?"

Cullen's other hand trails down Dorian's body, fingers running lightly over his cock in a way that makes Dorian's breath hitch and his hips lift off the furs. Bastard. Tease. How did he end up with the _patient_ barbarian? Shouldn't he be pinning Dorian down and rutting him raw right now? "This is as lovely as the rest of you. I wouldn't mind having it inside me."

It takes a moment for the meaning to filter through. Oh, _oh_ ;-- "You'd let me--"

Cullen leans down, lips curving in a broad smile. "Who said anything about _let_ , my love? There's more than one way for me to pin you down and ride you hard."

Now there's an image. "I'll-- keep that in mind. For another time."

"Another time." Cullen echoes. "And this time?"

Dorian glares at him, because it should be perfectly obvious. "I _refuse_ to beg."

"Another time, perhaps?" Cullen says, the smug bastard, and uses the distraction of Dorian being too annoyed at him for being a smug bastard to remember his anxiety to slide a finger into him, smile only getting smugger at the way Dorian spreads his legs almost by instinct, wanting more, more, more. "Should I take you like this? Or have you in my lap? Or were you hoping I would turn you over, pin you down and mount you like a beast in rut?"

The last question is punctuated with a second finger, which Dorian is going to use as an excuse for the noise that escapes his throat. It's nothing to do with that last image at all. He presses his lips together firmly, refusing to answer.

"You don't have to pick. I can always just work through each in turn and figure out which you like best." Cullen does something with his fingers that forces another noise through Dorian's lips. Not begging with words is a hollow victory, when his body is doing the begging for him, greedy for Cullen's touch. "I told you, it's my duty to keep you well-pleasured, and I am a man who takes his duty _very_ seriously. Hmm, how about this?"

He shifts into something like a sitting position, pulling Dorian onto his lap, back flush to Cullen's chest. Among other parts. "Seems familiar, somehow." Only with less clothes on and without a tableful of barbarians cheering every time Cullen kisses him.

"Did you not think of it? I did. I was tempted to just bend you over the table, show them all you're mine." Cullen kisses his shoulder. "But then I got greedy. I don't want anyone else to see you. Lift up." A hand on his hip guides him, just enough movement to let Cullen line everything up. He's _thick_ , and Dorian hasn't had the chance to indulge since his rather hurried departure from Qunaris-- he is going to feel _every inch_ and he wants it. Wants to feel _claimed_ , ruined, wrecked. Wants the promise of _another time_ and a bed he might end up chained to but at least won't be thrown out of before dawn. "Now down." Cullen instructs him, calmly. "Take your time."

Well, screw _that_. He wants to break that control. Wants to drive Cullen to the point where he forgets everything else, precisely like a beast in rut, no thought in his head that isn't about _claiming_. So he starts slow, gives himself enough time to ensure that it won't be more than he can handle, and then takes the rest in a single movement, a sweet stretch that's nearly on the edge of pain, and doesn't hesitate to lift up and do it again, getting a better angle on the second stroke. 

Cullen makes a very satisfying noise when he does it, something on the edge of a growl, and the third time he rises up hands clamp around his hips, urging him to move faster, practically slamming him down on Cullen's cock each time. Soon his thighs are aching, words spilling out of him, _more more more_ (demanding, not begging), and Cullen must agree because he pushes Dorian forward, onto his hands and knees.

He does it without a moment's pause, and then it's all Dorian can do to hold himself up, utterly at Cullen's mercy-- and there is no mercy, only all of Cullen's strength, devoted to pinning him into exactly the right position that each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through him, and he can't help but remember all those stories about the voracious sexual appetites of the southerners. _Morning, noon, and night_ a little voice whispers in the back of his mind. _Whenever he wants you, wherever he wants you-- the scion of House Pavus, claimed and collared, begging for his barbarian master's cock..._

" _Amabo te_." he moans, realising too late that he's begging in the wrong language entirely, but in the moment that he wonders if it's really possible to come untouched Cullen reaches around-- it barely takes more than a single touch to undo him, falling apart even as Cullen pulls him close, _venhedis_ he can feel the moment Cullen follows him over the edge, warmth spilling inside.

When Cullen lets him go, he simply lets himself collapse onto the furs, turning onto his side so he can look up at his-- what? What should he call him? After a moment he decides to drop that matter for the much less complicated part where he can feel glad that at least Cullen's breathing is as ragged as his own.

"Not bad for a first round." Cullen says, after a moment. Did he just _lick his fingers_?

Dorian stares at him. There are going to be _rounds_? Also, he is rather-- sticky. "May I at least have a bath first?"

"You can have a bath. I'll probably end up joining you in it, though." Cullen pulls him into an embrace, wrapping them both in one of the larger furs. "I can tell you're going to be a demanding consort. I definitely should claim you a few times, just to make sure. Nap first, recover your strength. I'll send for the tub in a bit."

_A few times_. Well, when he puts it like that, Dorian supposes he can agree to that plan. He closes his eyes, lets Cullen hold him tight.

He's not going to escape like this, but he can do that later. Possibly _much_ later. At his leisure. Potentially giving Cullen some warning first, in case he'd like to hunt him down and do the claiming bit all over again. It would only be fair, after all.

* * *

Note to Cullen: a wooden tub filled with lukewarm water is not a _bath_. Nothing that involves your tongue as the primary method of cleaning me is a _bath_. (You may continue to indulge yourself in the latter if you must, I suppose.)

Note to Dorian: If I win the next chess match, you have to admit you like my tongue. Particularly in your (the rest of this line obscured).


	5. Epilogue

Maevis Tilani walks through the Grand Tourney in as casual a way as a tiger takes a stroll through the jungle, watching the way the southerners watch her. In Minrathous, an outfit crafted of black silk and fine leather and worn with elaborate gold-and-emerald jewelry and matching belt, clearly of dwarven make, says _I am fabulously wealthy and have connections with the Ambassadoria_. Here, it simply says _Consort_. Seeing as this gives her relative freedom to roam about the Tourney, meet up with Varric for drinks, watch shirtless southern warriors beat each other up, and generally enjoy the rustic southern customs in a way few Tevinter mages ever could, Mae couldn't really care less what the locals think it means.

Right now she's amusing herself at the way the consorts gather for what is their own little battle-- of who is the prettiest, and most pampered, and in possession of the strongest, handsomest, and of course, most devoted lover. A small crowd has gathered a little off the main road, and she can see the battle-lines being drawn already in the body-language of the two at the centre of it. A woman in white with an elaborate horned headdress and wearing enough diamonds to make a dwarf faint of envy just looking at her, is facing off against a young man in black wearing a thick gold dragon-headed torc around his neck and carrying a dragon-headed staff to match it.

_Nearly a Tevinter style_ , she thinks, and then blinks, and looks closer. _Dorian?_

Dorian, who she'd last seen years ago, the morning after he'd turned up drunk on her doorstep and bawled his eyes out, trying to confess through his tears something she'd already known because, _dear boy, I'm not blind_. Dorian who disappeared, and there'd been no way of tracing him because it turned out that that damned father of his had kept things quiet for months, until he could no longer cover up what had happened. A cold trail, and far too many ways for things to have gone horribly wrong.

He'd been unpleasingly unspecific about precisely why Dorian might have been in south Tevinter, near the edge of 'civilisation', too.

That said, Dorian does not look at all as if he is in the south under duress. Indeed, he is as prettily done up as he ever got for one of Mae's parties, clearly reveling in being the centre of attention, and looking much more comfortable in his own skin. Mae remembers the boy whose dramatic antics always bore the undercurrent of _love me, love me, please, somebody, love me_ , and she would like to think this this new, calmer confidence he shows as he and his opponent throw barbed compliments at each other means that somebody does.

She doesn't interrupt. She watches long enough to be sure he doesn't need her help, and then moves on. If her instincts are right, that's the best thing she can do for him.

Of course, because the world has a sense of humour, she steps into a tent later that night, rolling her eyes at Varric's over-elaborate and rather tongue-in-cheek version of chivalry, and sees him again. This time perched on the lap of a very handsome man, who Varric calls 'Rutherford' and Dorian refers to as 'my Cullen' with an obvious and rather adorable enjoyment of the possessive.

Varric tells the story, of course. With the two of them protesting-- particularly Dorian-- where the retelling gets a little unlikely, but really, do the details matter?

It starts with _once upon a time there was a boy_ and ends with _happily ever after_ , and secretly, those stories have always been her favourite.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bounty [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203963) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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